Progress
by flawedesires
Summary: ("She just sneaks in; this is like five times a week.") Post 4x02. On a given night, Malia practices a little B&E to see Stiles.
1. Bacon

Just a really quick Stiles/Malia oneshot as of 4x02. (Based off of Stiles's conversation with Scott early on.) Hope it's okay. xoxo

* * *

It's 2am when Stiles jerks himself awake. He struggles against invisible hands at his neck, cold air scraping the back of his throat as he gasps his way to calmness. Stars dance above him lazily. His room is blanketed in darkness except for the eerie shadows on his wall, which is little comfort. He focuses on breathing, on slowing the horserace in his chest to a nice stroll.

He's still not quite comfortable with sleeping. His dreams are haunted by bandaged faces, by pretty girls who are no longer breathing. It's a pity—he used to be quite the night owl when he was younger. He'd spend all night on the computer if he was able to. Now, he'd give anything to skip to daylight.

He feels a cooling breeze on his face, realizes with a start that his window is open. And then that he is not alone. A small figure is burrowed into his side, nested in his blankets.

Malia.

He tries and then fails to resist the urge to make sure he's not still dreaming. It's a habit he can't break. He pinches himself, hard. It hurts, but confirms it: Malia is really here, again, like she has been every night this week. He looks at her for a moment. Even the way she sleeps is reminiscent of her canine childhood; always curled up tight, with her knees at her chest and her face hidden by her mass of dark hair. A dark eye blinks up at him, wide open. Of course.

"Hey," he says hoarsely. "Didn't hear you come in."

She lifts her head, says nothing in reply. She's taken to not speaking around him when they're alone, communicating more with her expressions. As she'd told him once, "There are no words in the animal kingdom." She reaches up and touches the side of his face, questioning. There's a dent between her eyebrows.

"I'm okay," he tells her. "Just a bad dream."

"I get those too," she whispers, and she sounds less like a werecoyote and more like a girl that hasn't been a girl in a very long time.

He says, "Hey, it'll be okay." He lifts up his arm and she fits into the space comfortably. "Just go back to sleep." He lays back to do so, but feels her eyes on him. "What?" He looks at her, frowning. She's wearing a familiar expression-mouth slightly open, teeth set lightly on the curve of her lower lip, eyes bright and suggestive and focused on his mouth. "Oh," he laughs, which she takes as affirmation. She leans forward, smelling like grass, kisses him and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him...

* * *

"STILES!" His father's voice booms through the door, followed by several loud knocks. "Time for school!"

Stiles flails awake, hits the floor hard. In a sleepy daze, he scrambles to his feet, thanking God the sheriff hadn't barged in. Although, trying to cover up is sort of pointless. While he has yet to say anything about Malia's presence, Stiles knows his dad isn't clueless. He looks toward the bed and finds the cause of his abrupt meeting with the floor. Malia's shuffled to the middle of the mattress and bundled up into an almost unrecognizable lump except for her eyes, which now meet Stiles's calmly.

"Hungry?" he asks. She nods and sits up, suddenly alert. (She isn't naked; she's wearing his t-shirt instead.) "Cereal?" Her nose wrinkles. "Toast?" Her brow furrows. He scratches his head. "Uhh, eggs." Her brows shoot up. "Eggs and bacon?" No response. "What, you've never had eggs and bacon?"

"I've had eggs and ham," she says.

Stiles groans. "Oh, god. Oh sweet lord. We need to fix that like right now." Well, after his dad leaves. He sits Malia at the kitchen table and slides around the kitchen on his best slippery socks while iterating to her his best experiences with this particular form of cooked pig. He probably looks like an idiot, flinging oil and bacon and eggshells like a madman, but it's worth it to see the look on her face when she eats.

"I _like_ bacon," she tells him with her mouth full. "I like bacon _a lot_."

He grins. "We'll add it to the List," he promises. (The List being their endeavor to help Malia remember how to be a person again, it encompasses things like: _Malia likes—chicken, chocolate, ice cream, green beans. Malia dislikes—green beans. Malia hates—green beans_.)

The first thing she does when they get to school a half hour later is run up to the group, push Scott out of the way mid-sentence, and say, "You guys, I _really_ like bacon."

"That's great, Malia," Scott says as he regains his balance. He glances at Stiles, who returns it with a pointed look.

Kira catches on quickly. "How do you feel about ham?" she asks.

Malia starts what Stiles calls _Malia-talking _(verb, meaning _to talk so fast it's hard to follow/make out words; usually occurs when Malia gets excited_). "It's okay, but it's not as good as bacon. In the woods I didn't..."

Lydia raises an eyebrow at Stiles when no one's looking.

Stiles shrugs. "Progress."


	2. False Alarm

This one features the gang a bit more just because I'm eager for Malia to be more accepted into the group, for her to settle in and become comfortable with becoming a person. This piece is exploring that, I guess.

* * *

Saturdays are typically very quiet in the Stilinski house. The sheriff has had a difficult time staying away from the station on weekends given recent developments, and for Stiles Saturday afternoons were always reserved for Scott, whether they're saving the town from all-powerful entities or playing video games at Scott's place. This particular Saturday, they were doing a little bit of both. (Or so they told themselves.)

"One hundred and seventeen million," Scott says, for the umpteenth time.

"One hundred and seventeen million," Stiles echoes, for the umpteenth time.

Lydia's irritated voice bursts from the Scott's phone, wedged between the game console and the pizza box. "Yes, thank you, we heard you the first thousand times. So Kira and—"

Stiles swears loudly as his character is slaughtered by Scott's. Blood spatters the screen and oozes off while the words STILES24 HAS BEEN KILLED BY MCCOOLL11 mock him ruthlessly. (He's always been irked by that 24. It implies there are 23 other Stiles's out there before him.)

"_Excuse_ me?" Lydia asks.

"Scott!" Stiles groans. "My own brother!" He begins to slam the controller's buttons furiously, already plotting his revenge. "Oh, you'd better run, Scotty boy. I've got a frag grenade with your name on it."

Scott yanks up his controller as though it'll make his character run faster. "Try me," he retorts.

Through the phone, Lydia sighs. She had called to update them on their current situation, as well as have Stiles research something. (Scott's computer is open to some page on pagan religion but he's already forgotten what it was she asked for.)

"You guys should come and play," Scott says, awfully cheery for a guy whose character was lacking ammunition. Stiles strongly suspects the cheeriness can be blamed on the fact that Lydia has Kira in tow.

But Lydia says (rather imperiously), "We've got better things to do." Stiles can hear her ruffling through something, and then Kira's faint voice in the background. _What are they up to?_ "Idiocy," Lydia tells her. Then to the boys, "Besides, _Stiles_ won't let me play after I beat him last time."

"I still maintain that you cheated," Stiles huffs. It's a vividly painful memory. He navigates his character onto a rooftop looming over Scott's unsuspecting one. Oh, revenge is so sweet.

"I did no such thing. As it happens, I have excellent hand-eye coordination," Lydia replies primly. "Look, Kira and I are at the library if you decide you want to help out." Her voice is heavy with implication.

"We'll be over later," Scott promises, at the same time Stiles says, "Hey, we _are_ helping."

"Not even a little bit," Lydia says, and promptly hangs up.

Stiles's sneak attack is interrupted by his own phone ringing, which distracts them enough that Scott catches on and his character escapes his timely and well-deserved death. Stiles curses and pauses the game.

"Saved by the bell," he says bitterly.

Scott laughs. Normally Scott has a pleasing and contagious laugh, but right now Stiles wants to turn it into a wail of pain. (Sometimes he tells himself he's capable of doing that.) "Sure," Scott says around a mouthful of pizza. He gestures to Stiles's phone. "Who's that?"

(1:38 PM) Malia T: alfjwl l? /to

"Malia," Stiles answers.

"What is it?"

"I have no idea." He frowns at the screen. Malia doesn't text. Malia calls, and calls frequently, most of the time because her fingers fumble and she hits the wrong button on her phone. It helps she has a similar one to Stiles's, so at least he can tell her how to hang up. Sometimes it's because she actually needs his help, although then it's usually with washing machines or how long she should microwave a burrito. (Malia, as it turns out, does not like asking for anyone's help.) But text? Never.

(1:39 PM) Stiles S: What?

(1:40 PM) Malia T: HELP.

(1:40 PM) Stiles S: Where are you?

(1:41 PM) Stiles S: ?

(1:41 PM) Malia T: Your house.

(1:41 PM) Malia T: 911.

_"__Shit."_ Stiles jumps up abruptly, dropping the controller and nearly tripping over the pizza box in his haste. "I gotta go." He grabs his jacket and shoves his arms in.

Scott's competitiveness is immediately replaced by concern. "Everything okay?"

"No clue." Stiles tosses him the phone, watches his expression harden as he reads it.

Scott tosses it back. "You drive," he says, and the two of them rush out.

They burst through his front door at the speed of light, breathing hard. On the drive over Stiles had imagined several unpleasant scenarios, many of them involving blood and claws. "Malia!" he shouts. The house looks clean. Scott sniffs the air, frowns and shakes his head. Stiles stumbles over to the stairs and starts climbing. "MALIA!"

"What?"

He whirls. There she is on his living room floor, surrounded by papers and books and looking completely fine. He sputters. "What—you're okay?" She frowns in puzzlement. He holds up his phone in disbelief. "You texted me 911."

She says, utterly confused, "You said to say 911 if I needed help."

He stares at her. "Yeah," he says, "for an emergency."

"This is an emergency."

"No, Malia, like if you're dying."

Her eyebrows draw together. "Why would I text you if I'm dying?"

He sighs, turns to Scott and shrugs. "Bogus." He thinks about it. "Actually, this is good. At least she understands 911 now."

Scott looks bemused instead of annoyed, which Stiles might have been were he in Scott's place. But that's Scott's thing; if you're asking for his help, he's never annoyed. "I'm going to meet Kira and Lydia then," he's saying. "Don't worry about it, man."

"You don't have a ride," Stiles says.

Scott gives him a look. "Dude."

Stiles gets it. "Right. Werewolf speed." He claps Scott's shoulder. "Thanks, man."

Scott nods. "Bye, Malia," he calls as he walks to the door.

"Bye," Malia replies. After the door closes and Scott's out of earshot she muses, "Scott would make a good coyote. He's good at holding people together."

"Yeah, he is," Stiles agrees.

To his surprise Malia continues, "You'd make a good coyote, too."

"Really?"

"No," Malia says bluntly. She's looking down, but Stiles thinks he catches the corner of her mouth turn up. Then, after a pause, "But I'd take care of you." It's not the nicest thing anyone's ever said to him, but it's not the meanest either, and despite himself Stiles smiles.

"Alright, what's the 911 for?" He takes real notice of the pile of papers, the pen behind her ear, the multicolored highlighters in her hands. "What are you—? Wait, how do you even get in here?"

Malia wilts visibly. "I have a history test on Monday," she tells him. "Since, you know, I failed the last one. But I have no clue who any of these people are." She gestured to the mess, then looks up at him with innocent eyes that she's probably figured out he can't resist.

He scratches his head. "Alright. Okay." He steps into the circle of disaster and sits down beside her. He _is_ probably the best person to help her. He aced that test. Okay, with help from Lydia, but you get the idea. He spreads his hands. "Tell me what you know."

A half-hour or so into a lesson about the presidents of the United States, Stiles interrupts Malia to say, "Whoa, stop. Abraham Lincoln was _not_ a vampire hunter. Who told you that?"

She blinks. "I saw it on TV." Stiles laughs, and can't stop laughing. He's almost in tears before Malia pushes him over hard enough that he hits the coffee table. (She routinely forgets how strong she is.) "Stop laughing! It's true!" she insists.

Stiles wipes at his eyes. "Malia, that's a movie, not a documentary." He thinks about it. "And a bad movie at that. You know what, I'll show you a great movie. Tons of great movies."

"Okay," Malia says. And then after a moment, "I'd like that."

(2:02 PM) Scott M: Everything cool?

(2:51 PM) Stiles S: Yeah, fantastic.

(2:51 PM) Stiles S: Sorry. Got distracted.

(2:52 PM) Scott M: What was it?

(2:52 PM) Stiles S: History trouble. She's trying to study.

(2:53 PM) Scott M: Lydia wants me to tell you you're the worst tutor in the world.

(2:53 PM) Stiles S: This is not untrue.

(2:53 PM) Stiles S: Tell her I said it's a vicious lie.

(2:54 PM) Scott M: She says you're an idiot.

(2:54 PM) Scott M: And that you'll make Malia fail. Again.

(2:55 PM) Scott M: Bring her to the library.

Stiles complies. Lydia upstages Stiles by giving Malia a solid and reliable understanding of the American government and its more prominent leaders, then proceeds to call Stiles an idiot several more times. Granted, it's because he has two pens stuck under his upper lip in an attempt to make Malia laugh, but it's a success (meaning she snorts) so he doesn't really care. Scott tells Kira that he mauled Stiles at Call of Duty, which incites a heated argument in which Stiles asserts loudly that he happened to break Scott's winning streak again thank you very much and they all get kicked out of the library to Lydia's dismay.

He makes it up to her by hosting a movie night at his house and forces everyone to watch the best of the Bond movies. Not halfway through Kira is snoring with her hand tangled in Scott's. Lydia scoffs at the screenwriting and mutters about the not-so-subtle sexism of the Bond girls as plot devices. Malia sits close enough to Stiles on the couch that he can smell her hair. She takes his hand before the title card and, after interrupting the movies several times with questions ("Why doesn't he just shoot her?" "He needs her." "What for? He's got all the information he needs." "Malia,_watch the movie_." "But he's doing everything wrong." "Just watch!") falls asleep, too.

She's still asleep when the others call it a night—Scott and Kira first with yawning goodbyes and then Lydia with a whispered explanation about a seminar in the morning—and Stiles wonders if this'll become a regular thing in between crises. He glances at Malia's face, slack and youthful in sleep, and thinks he wouldn't really mind.

* * *

PS: I've also put this up on my brand-new profile on AO3. I'm adolescentwolf, if you prefer that site.


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